The old man in the picture is not familiar to me, but I like his smile. He seems to be laughing, to be happy.
I remain silent. I don't want to dash her hopes.
"My daughter was a pilot." Her voice is soothing, like a lullaby, warm and gentle. "Her plane fell from the sky during the first attacks. She was trying to save her son. His grandpa had taken him into the city for the afternoon, to the zoo in Central Park, when the earthquake hit. I don't think she ever forgave herself for being with me when it happened, complaining about his father, worrying over their divorce."
A long sigh escapes her lips and her finger shifts a few inches to the side, to the photograph of a little boy.
A little boy I know very well.
"Brock," I say unintentionally—the word pops out just as surprised as I am. We were in the same training group. I have punched his face too many times not to recognize it. His grin does not seem so smug on a child, but I know the teenager, the guard who worked beside me on the wall, chiding me like all the other boys.
Weak fingers clutch my arm, and I realize the woman's grip is as tight as she can make it. "You know him?"
"We work together."
I catch her before she falls, using my strength to carry her weight, to keep her upright on her feet.
"He's alive," she whispers.
Saying it out loud gives her strength, so I repeat the words. "Your grandson is alive. He's a member of the queen's guard. Very strong. A good fighter."
I open my mouth to say more, but nothing comes to mind. Though I've stood next to this boy for years, manning the wall, walking through the old city, I know nothing about him. I've never even seen his grandfather. Do they live together? Does Brock even know the man is alive? Does he remember him?
As I speak, she lets go of me, brushing her finger lightly against his baby picture. I hastily think of more to say.
"He's a good man." I settle on those words, not completely sincere but not wrong either. Brock can be lazy, and he says things that sting, but he is no worse than the rest of them, and right now I want to bring this woman peace.
Her eyes glisten, wet with unshed tears.
"I'm sorry," I apologize. I've made her upset. I don't understand how.
"No, child," she hushes, shaking her head as the droplets finally fall, dipping in and out of the grooves on her cheeks before slipping to the floor. "These are tears of joy."
The woman turns back to the picture, eyes bright and glued to her grandson. I watch for a moment, then look away, uncomfortable as though I'm intruding on something I shouldn't.
The eyes around me turn judging.
The photographs close in, accusing, as though they know why I'm really here. As if they know it was not by accident that I find myself in the rebel camp.
You’re my enemy, they shout, cutting like knives because it is the truth. I fight on the wall. I fight for the queen.
I thought I fought to keep the rebels out, but now I see past the façade. I fought to keep these people in, to keep them locked in their prison, to keep them away from the families that yearn for them.
Without looking back, I run from the room.
"Jade!" Asher shouts after me.
I don't slow down. I keep sprinting. The halls all look the same, and I take them at random, not knowing where I'm going but not caring. I just need to get as far away from that room as possible, as far away from those photographs as I can.
"Take a left," Asher calls, sarcasm heavy in his panting voice.
I listen.
A familiar door springs into view, and I realize that somehow I've found my way back to my cage.
Good.
I deserve to be locked up.
Asher grabs my hand, sliding his fingers into mine, turning me around before I can step inside. With his other hand, he cups my cheek, forcing me to meet his eyes.
How can two people who look so alike be so different? The queen is etched in his face, his straight nose, his pale skin, his almost white hair. But all those angles seem soft, smooth, not harsh like hers. And in his eyes, the universe waits for me, almost within reach.
How can the woman who owns me have a son so determined to set me free?
"You were amazing."
I edge back from his touch, from his words. I do not want praise, not now.
"Can you take me there tomorrow?" I ask, breaking contact, feeling cold the minute his skin leaves mine.
"Sure." He watches me, confused, pulling his arms back to his side, dropping them there, lifeless.
I've wounded him. I don't have time to feel sorry. My throat itches and my nose burns, sensations that have become familiar. And this time, I need to sob in isolation. I do not deserve the feel of warm arms around me, not when I have worked so hard to keep warm arms away from other people.
"Bring a pen and paper," I tell him and then I am gone, hidden behind the door just as my legs give out and I fall, overcome with emotions I am unused to.
My head lands just behind the door, and I see Asher's feet under the crack, still outside of my room. He waits and I'm sure he can hear me though I try to cry as silently as possible.
Eventually, he gives in.
Through blurry eyes, I watch his shadow disappear.
When Asher arrives the next day, I am the strong Jade again. I have promised myself that there will be no more tears, that I will not waste my time feeling sorry when I can spend it correcting my mistakes.
We walk silently to the missing persons room, hands a few inches apart—a distance that consumes my thoughts the entire way there.
Asher is different. He is solemn, quiet, something I have never seen from him. And in the silence, words escape me. My lips feel awkward. They open to speak, but each time, I stop and close them again, unsure. I squirm in my own skin, uncomfortable. I hurt him, but I don't know how, so I also don't know how to fix it.
When we reach the photographs, we both stop. I lick my lips, unable to avoid conversation any longer.
"I'm sure you're wondering why I wanted to come back, when I left so hastily yesterday…" I trail off as Asher nods. I wait until I realize he does not want to speak. "Anyway, I thought we could go through each picture and write down if I know the person, if they are alive, maybe a little about their life in Kardenia. I can't speak with everyone, not like yesterday, but maybe this would still help."
"It will," he says, tone not giving anything away. Then he sits, resting the notebook in his lap with a pen at the ready.
I take it as my cue to continue and for the next few hours, nothing changes except my position in the room.
I start at the left side, making my way through each and every photograph, telling Asher how much or little I know about these people. Most are foreign to me, some I recognize from passing glances, some I've actually interacted with, and a rare few like Brock are truly familiar to me.
The only sound aside from my voice is the constant scratching of the pen. Asher barely looks up from the paper, barely watches me. I feel as though something between us snapped, recoiled, and will never connect again.
But I try my best to ignore it, to remain strong even as my throat dries and my voice cracks. I push through, until finally my gaze is on the opposite wall, on the final photo. A woman I've never seen before. One of the many I cannot help.
With a sigh, I roll my shoulders and turn around. Though I'm tired, a new sort of energy fills my stomach. Satisfaction. A warm glow filters through my veins, brings a smile to my face.
Am I happy?
I can’t be sure, but my body is lighter, more buoyant. Not quite like Maddy, but there is an electric charge running through my system that I've never felt before.
"All done?" Asher asks. He sounds exhausted, as though it is more than just physical, as though a tiredness fills his mind as well. Slowly, he stands, stretching stale muscles and slipping the notebook back into his pocket. "I'll share the news, tell everyone what you've told me."
"Thank you," I say, and then we
slip into silence. The terrible kind. Not the sort of quiet that lets the mind sit at peace, not the silence we had when he held me, when he comforted me as my tears continued to fall.
This silence is a wall rising between us, separating us—a new dividing line, one that scares me now that I know what it's like to be on the same side of the threshold. None of my words can break through, and the longer it exists, the more distant we become. My body stings, prickled with an anxious nervousness I've never felt in his presence before.
Asher leaves and I follow behind him, not even trying to catch up. We make our way through the maze like ghosts until he delivers me back to my room. Then we stand, eyes trapped, throats empty, in a trance.
He looks away, starts to turn, but I know I cannot leave it like this. If we don’t speak now, I'm worried we never will again, that whatever was between us will be irreparable, broken, gone forever.
And I know I should let him go. That in the end he will be better for it. But I've lost so much already.
I'm a statue, frozen, so unsure.
His back is to me now. His feet rise to walk away.
"Asher!" I shout. The words are expelled with more force than I realize. A tremor runs through his body, a pause, but then he moves forward again. So I reach with my hand, grabbing his fingers as I've wanted to all day, forcing him to turn around.
Pain fills his eyes.
"Asher, what is wrong?" The awkward air has dissipated. It was pushed away, replaced by something more demanding. My gut needs to understand.
"It's nothing, Jade."
But I refuse to accept that, and I tug on his arm, bringing him fully around to face me.
"Asher." My voice is low and unrelenting. Chiding even.
Obstinate, he remains silent.
"Asher, what did I do?"
Finally his face cracks, brows furrowing as his entire body hunches. "You didn’t do anything, Jade. Really. It's not about you, it's…" He looks around, examining the hallway, and I realize what it's about.
His mother. The queen.
No other topic would consume him so much, no other person. And no one in the rebel camp knows of his true lineage, which is why he is nervously scanning the perimeter, searching for overeager ears.
But he can talk to me.
So without warning, I yank forcefully on his arm, throwing him off balance so he stumbles into my room. Before he has a chance to right himself, I close the door, standing before it, doing what I do best—guarding.
We are alone. Shut off from the world. And it will stay that way until I get the truth from him.
"Tell me," I demand.
Confliction flickers in his squint, his pursed lips, the way he shakes as he runs a hand through his hair. Then it disappears in one long exhale that smoothes the tension from his body, dropping his shoulders, straightening his spine.
"How did you know I'm the prince?"
I stop, twitch, wondering how many truths are about to be revealed.
"Everyone in the guard knows," I say slowly, choosing every word with caution.
A knowing smile, an empty one, crosses his lips. "You were supposed to capture me on that first day, right? To bring me back to the queen? To my mother?"
I nod, afraid of what I might give away.
"It's okay, I don't blame you. As soon as you told me you knew who I am, I guessed as much. That's not what bothers me. It’s the why."
"Why what?"
"Why she wants me back."
"Because you're her son," I say. It's a gut reaction, an automatic response.
Asher laughs darkly, under his breath. "Right, because I'm her son. Her only child."
There is a deeper meaning there but I don't understand.
"I look at that wall of photographs, and I see a hundred people who want their families back, who miss them, who love them. And I know no such shrine waits for me back home. My mother does not put flowers out on my birthday. She does not visit my old room, wondering what became of her lost child. She does not imagine what the years have made me look like."
He is right, but I don’t say so. I do not want to hurt him, not when he looks so fragile already.
"She does not want me back because she loves me. She wants me back so she can use me."
"Asher." I reach my hand out, squeezing his shoulder. I can't go so far as to deny it—the queen does not know love. But still, there is something in his words I cannot see, a hidden meaning that is beyond me. A secret only he and his mother share.
"I've accepted it," he tells me, whispers, as his gaze lifts to meet my eyes. "But I thought someday, somehow, someone else might want me. Might want to love me. I thought…"
His eyes drop to my lips.
A lightning bolt flares down my spine, hot and electric, standing my every nerve on end. We are close enough to touch. Heat seeps into my hand, lifting from his skin and coursing into my body.
Our eyes meet again.
Asher breaks away, stepping out of my hold. I want to follow, to bring him back, but I am stuck as a wave of cold water washes over me, hurts me, leaves me wounded.
"Magic always starts with a curse, that's what we used to say back in my world. And it does." He breathes deeply, raw, and I know I am staring into his soul. I watch all the layers he has built come crashing down, melt to the floor, until all that remains is a basic fear, the sort that every person secretly holds in their hearts, buried in doubts.
"I am cursed. So was my mother. And her mother before her. We all yearn for love, ache for it, but we never find it. And that is why we have the magic, so we can take the love no one will ever willingly give us. And I fear…" He shutters, a shake that ripples down his frame. "I fear that one day I will be just like her."
"You won't," I urge, but he looks away.
I step closer, put my palm against his warm cheek, and bring his face back to mine. My thumb runs along the groove of his jaw, back to his ear as my fingers slip through the short hairs at the base of his neck.
"Asher, you won't."
This time he does not try to look away, but I can see he does not believe me. He has faith, it seems, in everyone but himself.
"How do you know?" he whispers. "No one in Kardenia misses me. No one here would put my face on the wall if I disappeared. No one would care, not really, not like with their families."
I step closer. Our toes touch. Our hips just barely brush against each other. My free hand finds his, our fingers clench, holding on for life.
"I would," I murmur.
There is a truth buried in the deep indigo of his eyes. It pulls me in, binds us.
We were meant to save each other.
And then his lips are on mine and I can't think any longer. My thoughts evaporate. Fire burns them all away. Flames that spark at my mouth then grow as they travel down into my chest, along my arms, to the very tips of my toes.
Asher pushes me back until I hit the wall, and then he presses further, until every inch of us touches, burns. His leg comes between mine as my hands clasp behind his neck, urging him closer. Hands grip my waist, just skimming my bare skin, pulling me toward him.
Time stops as we seem to fly, to soar together. I forget the cell, the room, the rebel camp. I forget that we are underground, because behind my closed eyes all I see are stars. The ones that spark in his irises, the ones that I've stared at for years on the wall. Stars and open skies and freedom.
That's the promise in his lips. The tantalizing dream that makes me pull on his shoulders, that makes him lift me up so my heels leave the ground and he holds me, arms crushing behind my back.
And I am lost there. Drowning in these sensations that my body has never experienced. In a warmth I thought my frozen soul would never find. My heart swells so that it might burst. And down in the depths of my mind, a damn breaks.
A curse lifts.
I stop moving as shock works its way through my system, stilling me, opening my eyes wide. Asher does the same, as though his shackles have shattered too.
Our breath comes ragged, uneven, heaving.
I blink, vision slowly returning as I sink back down to earth, but eternity still shines in his eyes.
"So…" he whispers. There is an excitement in his tone that I missed, that I thought was gone.
"So…" I copy, surprised to hear that my voice carries an electricity of its own. Something new. Something I like.
Time stretches as we communicate without words, lights dance in the space between us, sparking, talking for us.
But then it goes on too long, just a hair, just a bit. A nervous tingle shivers up my spine. My lips start to bend. I purse them, trying to hold this sudden outburst in. But I can't, and giggles leak out.
Happy.
Foreign to my ears.
Asher's deep laugh follows, spurns me on until my whole body is shaking, but I cannot stop even if I wanted to. Our hands reach for each other, holding us up as our legs start to give out, and our bodies lose control in a completely different sort of way.
We fall.
I laugh even harder, curling into his chest as his arms come around me, hold me.
After a while, the sound fades, bringing back the comfortable silence I am used to. I listen to his heartbeat slow, his breath even, and I shift just slightly so I am above his face, looking down at him.
A sigh escapes his lips, content, but also resigned.
"I should get these notes to the general, so he can make copies for people to read."
"Okay," I murmur, still in a daze.
Quickly, he lifts his face, lips brushing mine for just an instant, too fast for me to even realize until they are gone, far away.
He smiles, eyes bright as they watch me watch him.
"I'll be back soon."
And then he stands, but I don't make a move to follow. My limbs are jelly. I don't know if they work anymore.
Before he leaves, Asher bends down, placing one last quick kiss on my lips. As he pulls away, my face follows, stretches higher.
After he is gone, I sit for I don't know how long, fingers touching my swollen lips, wondering if the entire memory was a dream.
When my strength returns, I slide over to my books in the corner, pulling out the one with pictures, flipping to the end where my missing pages have been torn free.
Gathering Frost (Once Upon A Curse Book 1) Page 10